If Lyanna Was Alive
by EscapismReigns
Summary: AU fic. At the end of Robert's Rebellion, the Targaryen Dynasty has been completely obliterated. Yet, Lyanna leaves the Tower of Joy alive, and the Last Dragon is alive and growing within her womb. How will she hide Rhaegar's heir when she is now a Baratheon Queen? Long-shot spanning over years, following Jon Baratheon as he grows up. Shamelessly L R J.
1. Chapter 1

**If Lyanna was alive…**

**AU fic. At the end of Robert's Rebellion, the Targaryen Dynasty has been completely obliterated. Yet, Lyanna leaves the Tower of Joy alive, and the Last Dragon is alive and growing within her womb. How will she hide Rhaeghar's heir when she is now a Baratheon Queen? One-shot spanning over years, following Jon Baratheon as he grows up. Shamelessly L+R= J.**

**Disclaimer: Purely based off GRRM's work – Etcetera, etcetera. **

**A/N: And I've reworked the timeline a little to write this story. **

* * *

The gates opened wide – wide as possibly could be – the day Lyanna Stark arrived in King's Landing. Crowds line the street, to see the woman thousands had died for. Snatched right out of the Tower of Joy, they whisper, with her kidnapper slain in battle later that day.

They see drawn back shoulders, high chin, and defiance in blizzard grey eyes. A horse instead of carriage like other high-borns. No-one sees the deep bruises underneath those eyes, the stiffness in her posture, or the favouring of her left side over her right indicating injury.

They say that the day Lyanna Stark wed Robert Baratheon, the red comets were seen in the sky. Ravens in flocks to the west. Wolves howling in the North. "_Must be omens…surely good ones…"_

Because of her imprisonment by the Dragon Prince, and the gleeful speculation of the events in the Tower, the nobility reverted back to the barbaric practice of hanging the matrimonial bed sheets the morning after, the splashes of blood an insignia proclaiming the bride's purity.

No one ever knew of the hushed conversations, grey eyes calculating, and the small flask of goat's blood hidden beneath the royal mattress.

It was a complicated birth, they say, a premature birth. She almost dies. It's only fair. The kingdom bled for her, now she bleeds for the king. (_Which king doesn't really matter, sly smirks_).

Besides, the Targaryen dynasty is gone, gone, gone – with the Queen, the young prince Viserys and newborn princess' lifeblood emptied in painting the rocks of Dragonstone. Some wonder what the deceased infant Danaerys would have been like, had she been allowed to live. Which side of the Targaryen coin would have she landed?

Mercifully, Lyanna's infant is a direwolf through and through. Lyanna hopes she won't have to worry about the sides of coins for him. Lyanna sits beside the weirwood tree days later in deep and utter thanks, because she wouldn't know how to explain away violet eyes and silver hair.

* * *

Ultimately, it is Robert who decides the infant's name.

"Jon." he says, "Jon Baratheon – a good, strong name for a future king." That's the first time he tells Lyanna he loves her, he swears by the Seven that there will be no more whores and no more bastards. Lyanna is sceptical. How many bastards are there already?

The Seven are not her gods, but they will have to do. She hesitantly returns the declaration, and with those three little words Robert looks happier than Lyanna has ever seen him.

She commissions Varys to find Robert's bastards. He gives her an appraising look, and asks if she wants them 'dealt with.' She can't pretend she hasn't thought about it, several times. But she refuses to have the blood of innocent children on her hands. Vestiges of the renowned Stark honour remain with her, if nothing else.

She receives word back. There were five, but two have already died in their infancy. One girl is in the Riverlands, born to a whore. She sends the girl to the other one who is in the Vale, Mya Stone. She then sends a raven to Jon Arryn, commanding to have them stationed in good Houses and to be trained for high places, well, high enough for a bastard – handmaidens or the like.

There is a bastard boy from King's Landing she sends to Winterfell, a small lad she believes to be called Gendry. She asks Ned to treat him well. He may not be of Stark blood, but he is still tied to her. Later, she hears them tell of the "Bastard Stag of Winterfell". The bastards' mothers might hate her, but in the end, Lyanna is giving their children a life they would never have otherwise.

Varys asks her, "Why such interest in bastards?" She can't tell him the reason why is that those bastards have a better claim to the Baratheon throne than her son at the moment, and that she'd rather have them in a place where she can keep an eye on them. But when the Spider starts whistling a well-known folk tune, "Dragon in the Red Keep", Lyanna's glance shoots up.

_That bloody Spider._

Varys smirks knowingly (_is there any other way Varys smirks?)_ There is a terse silence, both assessing the other. And then the laughter comes, and with it, tentative first bonds of…not friendship…but something else is born.

* * *

She gives birth to a girl, two years later. By then, it's already clear to her that Robert is in love with a Lyanna that no longer exists – a fanciful, wild vision of a girl that in reality died with a dragon on the Trident. Robert still hasn't realised it yet, though. _Some of those warrior types are a bit dense,_ Lyanna bemuses.

They name the girl Myrcella, Robert's choice again. A beautiful little girl with a headful of black hair. But still a direwolf's grey eyes. Could it be that Stark blood outweighed all other lines? _BloodoftheFirstMenandKingsofTheNorthandWinterisCom ingandWargsandDirewolves. _The old gods are unforgiving, but the Starks were among their first children.

About a year later, Robert and Lyanna attend the wedding of Robert's brother, Stannis, to the Lannister cub, Cersei. Lyanna knows of Cersei, and knows that if she were not alive, it would be Cersei that Robert would have married. That would've been a second Doom of Valyria in the making. Stannis seems happy about his marriage– well, as happy as Stannis can seem – after all, Cersei is reputed to be the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms.

But Lyanna only has to look at her taut smile, and Tywin Lannister's slight sneer at the proceedings, to realise that the marriage is not enough for this power-hungry family. She'll have to keep an eye on them (_Maybe she'll find out if Lannisters really shit gold?)_

Robert gets drunk that night, and he is on her like a heaving auroch.

Lyanna tries to protest, pushing him and biting him. Not that it makes a gods-damned difference. After a while, she just stops.

There are no tears, Lyanna makes sure of that. If anything, she can't help but feel pity for this man, who despite getting everything he thought he wanted; it is all ashes in his mouth.

He says he doesn't remember what he did the next morning, but Lyanna sees the shame and guilt in his eyes.

The most painful memory of that night, Lyanna thinks years afterwards, is that her youngest son was conceived from rape. She tries not to think about it every time she looks into Steffon's Baratheon-blue eyes.

If she was asked, she would say that this was the souring point in their marriage. That it was the beginning of the end.

* * *

Jon's cousin Robb is visiting King's Landing. The nine-year old boys get along as if they were brothers – maybe in another life. They are running around, giggling and laughing, in the Queen's chambers while she sits with her brother. The younger Princess Myrcella and Prince Steffon, along with their Northern cousin, four-year old Sansa, struggle to keep up with the lively boys. Catelyn is at Winterfell still, with the babe Arya, and too heavy with her fourth child to travel. She writes to Ned of strange dreams, things that come to be, of weirwood trees and dreams where she sees from the eyes of animals.

Ned wonders what it means for the child she carries.

He is snapped out of his reverie when Rob and Jon knock over a torch, the flame singeing their sleeves. Robb cries out in pain, red burns already patterning his skin. Ned and Lyanna jump up, almost simultaneously.

But Jon, whose sleeve sports bigger burns than Robb's, appears unblemished. The little boy, with his mop of dark curls, is staring at the remaining flames in enthrallment. The blood in Ned's face drains a little, and he looks up to see Lyanna's grey eyes assessing him. Ned's own eyes, reflected back at him in the face of another, with a thinly-veiled threat.

Later that day, he is flipping paper. Leafing through the pages of a genealogy book – "Baratheon, hair black; Baratheon, hair black…Jon Baratheon, hair dark brown." He leans back on his chair. "Gods be good, Lyanna."

He confronts her after their evening meal. She motions for the servants and handmaidens to take their leave, citing a wish for family time with Ned, and their respective children.

When they're gone, and the children are playing out of ears range, Ned rounds on Lyanna in a quiet, but fierce, voice. "He is not a Baratheon. He is the gods-damned son of Rhaegar Targaryen!"

Her lips draw back in a snarl, "Be quiet, you fool! Ears are everywhere in King's Landing." Ned is silent, but his eyes are telling.

She continues, more composedly, "We will speak of this later. Not a word to anyone, Ned, or it could mean mine and my son's heads on stakes." This Lyanna is different from the sister he remembers. Ruling has changed her. This Lyanna less wild and impulsive, but instead is icy, hard, and savage in such a controlled manner that Ned is suddenly struck with the impression that she personifies the North better than her brothers ever could. She is a true Queen. And despite who might sit on the Iron Throne at the moment, her son is the true heir of Westeros.

The Last Dragon hidden in Stag's hide – oh the irony is almost too much.

After Ned leaves with Robb and Sansa back to his chambers, and Jon, Myrcella and Steffon have been put to bed by nursemaids, Lyanna sits with her untouched wine glass long into the night. She feels like weeping, because she knows at a single order, she could send her brother to the grave with the knowledge.

* * *

**(Another) A/N: I'd originally planned this as a couple of thousand words. But it mutated…oops. Sorry about killing off Dany, it's all in the name of the story *throws hands up while running from lynch mob***

**But yeah, we'll see how it goes. Reviews would be very much appreciated. I'll update sometime in the next week.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of GRRM's work.**

**A/N: A guest review asked why Catelyn was having wolf dreams. I might have been a bit vague, so I'll clear that up. I interpreted Bran as having strong powers when it came to being a green seer and warg and such, so I embellished Bran's ability to the point where it transfers somewhat to Catelyn while she is pregnant with him. Hope that answers your question, FanOfASOIAF.**

**Appreciated the reviews, guys. **

* * *

Lyanna has a favourite spot in the Red Keep's gardens. It's right next to a water fountain. It was incredibly beautiful, surrounded with the most colourful and exotic flowers imaginable. The coolness rolling off the water was a welcome respite on humid days.

But the scenery wasn't the point.

The noise of the water also conveniently drowns out the conversation of anyone seated at the bench beside it.

Which was why Varys was rather disappointed.

None of his little birds could get close enough to the sure-to-be-fascinating conversation between the Queen and her brother. Of course, Varys knew the general subject that they were discussing. It was his job to know such things. But it was the details that eluded him.

However, Varys does notice Ned Stark leaving the gardens decided more serious. If that was even possible for the grim-faced Northern Lord, Varys bemuses.

It was then the Wolf Queen breezed by Varys, her grey eyes sparkling, "Come on, dear Spider. You're going to need to do better than that."

She leaves a challenge too tempting.

The Lord Stark and his progeny leave for Winterfell a few days later, but Varys senses a straining bond still radiating between the two siblings.

How sad…

* * *

It's through great effort that Lyanna makes Robert attend the Small Council Meetings. But the calculated words of calculating men go straight over his war-driven mind. There's no denying Robert is a brilliant strategist – but not for politics.

So eventually, he stops going, and Lyanna takes his place at the Council.

It is veritable shark tank of politicians.

Lyanna knows she is out of her depth. Maybe…maybe in years to come, this will get easier. But for now, Lyanna sits, and watches the players of the Greatest Game with all the reverence that a student has to their master, or how a smart man watches his enemy.

When Stannis is appointed Master of Ships, Lyanna keeps her face carefully trained. It's not so much that she has a problem with Stannis – his introversion is a refreshing company considering the rowdy nobles at Court – but the slimy bitch in his tow makes Lyanna grit her teeth. Cersei has visited King's landing every now and then since Lyanna ascended the throne.

It's not like Lyanna can convince Robert to refuse, with Tywin Lannister breathing down his neck.

Lyanna's thoroughbred got excessive exercise in the months leading up to Cersei's arrival. Riding cleared Lyanna's head like nothing else, even after all these years.

Especially now, as it was the only activity she had that reminded her of her youth in Winterfell. Broadsword wielding and climbing were qualities that were looked down upon in a Queen.

The Barartheons of Dragonstone arrive in King's Landing with all the pomp Lyanna expects of Cersei Lannister. (_Cersei Baratheon just doesn't sound quite right_)

Lyanna sits beside Robert on his Iron Throne in a slightly lowered chair. The councilmen and her children stand behind them to receive Stannis.

It's a formal, tedious occasion. Stannis walks down an aisle of nobles, his wife and her three children a good distance behind.

But Cersei's eyes aren't on her husband. Lyanna follows Cersei's gaze to Ser Jaime Lannister, who is standing off to the side besides the loyal Lord Commander Barristan Selmy.

Lyanna frowns faintly. A passing comment that Littlefinger made weeks before comes back to Lyanna, and she scrutinizes Cersei's sons. Joffery and young Tommen are their mother's splitting image, it seems. No trace of Stannis is present in their features.

_Odd._

The daughter though, has a mixture of her mother's looks and her father's. Well, the half of the face that isn't covered with greyscale.

She tucks the information away as the ceremony progresses, and her royal husband gifts Stannis with the pin that accompanies the position of Master of Ships. When it is done, she retires to her room to think.

* * *

More years pass.

Lyanna learns to tolerate Cersei, if nothing more. In many ways, they are similar. Cersei is what Lyanna might have been, had they switched families and upbringings.

Lyanna knows Cersei despises her. Lyanna had gotten everything Cersei wished she had. The affection of man they had both sought (not Robert) and the most powerful position a woman could hold. Lyanna had taken both.

But where she tolerates Cersei, she despises that little shit, Joffery. He would often terrorise the servants, even the children at court, Jon and Steffon included.

Jon has long since demanded, as strong as his eleven year old voice could make it, that he wants weapon training so the next time Joffery tries to hurt him, Jon could beat him to a pulp.

Lyanna agrees wholeheartedly. She talks to Robert about giving his sos a good weapon's master. Robert looks pleased that his heir is suddenly interested in weapons and not books, so he orders Ser Barristan Selmy to see to it.

The Lord Commander looks absolutely thrilled to be teaching an eleven year old.

Varys, however, has a rather interesting contribution. He tells Lyanna he has sent for a Braavosi sword's master to teach Jon and Steffon.

"He calls it 'dancing,'" Varys scoffs.

(And Myrcella will be receiving training as well, although her daughter doesn't know that quite yet)

It also marks the beginning of Jon's training as future King. Lyanna knows the Small Council is vying for opportunities to influence him, and they fall over themselves with offers to teach him everything from literature to court politics.

Joffery is found wailing to his mother, a month later. He has an inexplicable case of a broken wrist and a few broken ribs, and a shiner of a black eye. Cersei is furious, but she won't do anything because she knows exactly who mangled her son. So everyone looks the other way.

Jon and Steffon have ill-contained smirks on their faces for a long time.

* * *

The Royal Family decides to travel to the North and Winterfell soon after Jon's fourteenth birthday. Myrcella is constantly smiling, bouncing up and down on her seat. What Lyanna thinks is odd is that she has picked up a little sparrow somewhere along the journey. The tiny creature has almost never been seen off the dark-headed girl's shoulder. And Steffon, well he is crowing at the top of his lungs his eagerness defeat his Northern cousins in a spar.

That boy is too much like Robert for his own good.

Lyanna glances back at Jon, who is regarding his siblings' energy wistfully.

_Poor lad_, she thinks_, Baratheon and Targaryen couldn't be any more different_. Rhaegar was reported to be much the same, introverted and thoughtful, at the same age.

All of Winterfell is lined up to greet them. They are warmly welcomed, of course, and Lyanna is glad to be home. Lyanna does a double-take when she sees what looks like little wolf-pups running around her nephews and nieces.

When she sees her brother's five children lined up, and it reminds her of a not so different group of four children here in Winterfell, many years ago, waiting for the arrival of another, very different King.

Robert is almost too fat to get off his horse. Since their estrangement, Robert has turned to his vices and subsequently his weight has ballooned. She knows he has returned to his whores. It was always inevitable.

The only promise Robert has kept is that of not to father anymore bastards. But that was more Lyanna's work than Robert's. At the moment she has Littlefinger supplying Robert's women with contraception herbs. She has one of her servants slipping Cersei Lannister the same herbs, just in case.

Speaking of bastards, after they are settled in, several hours before the feast, Lyanna accompanies Robert as he visits his bastard Gendry.

By now, the lad is fourteen or so. It is like viewing a painting of Robert in his younger years. So this is what Steffon will look like when he is older.

They are shown by a servant to the boy's bedroom. Lyanna is pleased. Her brother has really gone above and beyond in providing for this boy. Ned informed her that they treat him as their own.

The Bastard Stag of Winterfell.

Gendry watches them warily as they sit. His expression doesn't shift all through Robert's talk with him. He answers Robert in short, awkward sentences. Finally, the drink has called Robert, and he declares that they are leaving to get ready for the feast. Lyanna nods, and rises. She waits for Robert to leave the room, then turns back to talk to Gendry.

If there were wariness on Gendry's face before, now there was alarm, "Your Grace?" he asks hesitantly.

Lyanna gives a small smile, "You know, I believe my decision to send you to Winterfell worked out quite nicely. Has my brother been treating you well?"

Shock flashed across his face, "It-it was you? I thought it was – " he recovers quickly, "I mean, yes, Your Grace, he has."

Her motherly smile is kept in place, "Boy, you are the son of the King, no matter if you're trueborn or not. It still means something to me." She walks over to him, and much to his, and her own surprise, draws him into a tight hug. He is stiff at first, and then relaxes.

Lyanna draws him back to shoulder length, and says with her most sincere voice, "Gendry, if you ever need anything, you or your sisters in the Vale, you are welcome at King's Landing. You will sit with us at the High Table tonight; I know my children would like to meet their brother, bastard or no."

She turns, and begins walking out the door to catch up with her husband, but not before she hears a quiet, "Thank you."

She really does want to love the boy; she feels guilt that he never knew his mother and her role in that.

It's just an added bonus that he now knows who he owes his allegiance to.

Later on, Lyanna can see her children seem to reconnect with their Northern cousins, and, surprisingly enough, Gendry as well.

Well, mostly.

Jon and Gendry gain an instant relationship of something akin to brothers, Robb playing a part in that as well, although Lyanna suspects it would be hard for Gendry to forget his status while rough-housing with the Crown Prince and the heir to the North. Theon Greyjoy remains slightly aloof, as only a nineteen year old boy can when surrounded by fourteen year olds.

They spar, and ride and climb, and whatever else it is that adolescent boys do. Myrcella is a sweet girl – quiet during their stay at Winterfell as she is overshadowed by her louder female cousins. But she seems to accept Gendry, if not warming to him, but she often gifts him with her unobtrusive smiles.

Steffon accepts Gendry as well, but at ten, he is too young to really become friends with the lad. Lyanna knows he wishes that he were the same age as Jon. He follows the boys around, but is often left behind.

It is the first time Steffon has feelings of bitterness towards his brother and his future King.

Lyanna has taught her children to respect their heritage; that the North is a beautiful place, no matter how the nobles of the South whine and complain. She herself finds those sticky, hot, humid days in the Red Keep unbearable.

And now she is finally home, the North itself seeps into of her bones, the old gods envelop her with wind. Her House words come back to her as if they never left.

She expects to see a white raven any day now.

Lyanna, Ned and Robert visit the crypts to see the Stark's brother, Brandon and their father, Rickard and their mother. It is a harrowing experience for Robert, and he is on edge the whole visit. Lyanna can't help but smirk slightly. _Some warrior king_.

Benjen arrives late one night, clad in his Night's Watch black, and they cloak each other in a hug to tight it felt like it could fracture their bones. Lyanna hasn't hugged her littlest brother since she eloped with Rhaegar, all those years ago. Just gone fifteen years now – how things have changed.

Over dinner that night, Catelyn regards Jon. The look is not so much cold as wistful. Lyanna can relate – every woman wants her son to look like their father – well, excluding herself and Cersei Lannister – and Robb is more Tully than Stark.

Arya is a delight to Lyanna, perhaps because she reminds her so much of herself at the age – even to the extent of Arya's physical appearance. Arya relates her desire to wield weapons, and Lyanna resolves to make sure her niece gets the education that Lyanna herself never received.

That night, over the High Table in Winterfell's Hall, Jon turns to his mother, "Can I visit the wall with Uncle Benjen?" Lyanna halts. _Of all the things to ask…_ She glares at her brother, Benjen. What has he been saying to Jon?

Benjen gives a grin in response, and Robert gives a hearty laugh, "Come on, woman, you need to let the boy grow up. Every man must see the Wall once in his life!" Robert glances at Gendry, "You too, boy, you will accompany your brother!"

Everyone stiffens slightly, looking to Lyanna to see her reaction. She shifts an eyebrow.

Meanwhile, Jon and Gendry shoot each other a long-suffering look. It amazes Lyanna that they have formed such a strong bond in such a short amount of time. At the same time, a tiny voice whispers _especially when they're not even blood related._

Robb speaks out, "Father, can I go as well?"

Lyanna looks towards Ned, and he nods his agreement. Lyanna's lips tug upwards in a rueful smile. She sighs and turns back to Jon.

"Very well, Jon, you may go."

This of course, brings an outcry from the younger children, in particular Steffon and Arya. Ned denies them all. Myrcella has a faint look of disgust at the idea of even colder weather, the complete and utter Summer child she is. The little girl absently pats the chirping sparrow on her shoulder.

Lyanna turns to her nephew, Bran, whom she is seated beside, and says, "Do you not want to go like the other children?"

He has an unreadable expression on his face, but Lyanna could swear that it is too old for one so young.

The boy breaks her out of her reverie when he replies, "I will go. But now is not the time." He reaches down to pat his direwolf pup, "The three-eyed raven will tell me when it's time." The last statement was almost as if he was speaking to himself.

Lyanna wonders if he is touched. But then again, the boy has suffered hardships the others haven't. The disease, polio, took his legs just last year and left him to be lugged around by the simpleton, Hodor. It's a shame, she heard he loved to climb…before.

But then it hits her, "Three eyed raven?"

Bran nods to her with a solemn expression, "He comes to me in my dreams, my wolf dreams. He tells me of things that have yet to come. Sansa and the others say they don't believe me, but I know they have wolf dreams as well. The raven doesn't come to them, though."

The words of this seven-year-old boy frighten Lyanna more than anything else has in a long time. Now he is looking at her as if he knows how scared she is. Suddenly, Lyanna remembers the horror stories told to her as a child. Of the things that crept Beyond The Wall.

It is only now she realises that the very same blood runs through the Stark family.

She studies her children and Ned's children. The little sparrow on Myrcella's shoulder to the direwolf pups running underneath the table. A creature that is cursed in the Westerosi legends sears through her mind.

_Wargs._

All of them, _wargs. _And little Bran had the capacity to be something bigger and more powerful than all of them put together.

Now Lyanna feels like laughing. Greenseers and wargs in the Stark family? Who knew?

The following day, the party comprising of the menfolk leave for the Wall. Steffon's mixture of bitterness and longing tugs on her heart strings. Her youngest son was currently not speaking to her because of her own adamant desire of him staying at Winterfell. The Wall was too dangerous for little, overly-curious boys.

However, she is slightly irritated that she has been left behind. But when Robert has his mind truly set on something, there was little that could stay his course. Lyanna herself was living proof of that.

He was King, after all, she thinks bitterly.

* * *

**A/N: This is the last of the Lyanna-centric story. It's going to be focusing on Jon, now.**

**Before any of you ask why Jon hasn't got Ghost. Jon was really the only one who heard him, and he was the one who found him. If Jon hadn't been there, then Ghost wouldn't have been found. Though I wouldn't count him out of the story just yet…**

**Also, regarding Joffery, I have made him only a year younger than Jon, pushing his age thirteen instead of twelve by the time the events of "A Game Of Thrones" rolls about, although the Lannisters are going nowhere near Winterfell for now ****.**

**Obviously, Joffery and Tommen are still Jaime's, they were conceived on those visits Stannis and Cersei had to King's Landing. And Shireen is still Stannis'.**

**Constructive criticism would be great. **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: First of all, sorry it's taken so long to update! I'm in my final year at the moment, and exams are constantly insane...insane constantly…? You get what I mean. And, secondly, to the author who tore massive holes in my story: in some respects, yes I do get what you mean, however I never claimed to be GRRM and my plot is bound to have some, if not many, inconsistencies. The logic and little side-plot pieces in my head don't always translate to writing. Anyway, thanks for the continued support, enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: See above.**

* * *

These trips took time, so in the days leading up to the King's trip to the Wall, there wasn't really much to do.  
It also marks Jon's first encounter with a weirwood tree. Blood-like sap drips down the slanting eyes carved into the trunk, gods know how many millennia ago. He feels a sense of reverence in this, a reverence absent in the rigid structures of worship in the High Septs of the Red Keep.

The next day they leave.

Jon wakes up all of a sudden one morning, a few days away from Winterfell, with an overwhelming desire to piss. _Shouldn't have had that bloody mead last night.  
_After he finishes, he lets out a groan. It's so early, it is still dark. The dark before the dawn. Jon really can't be bothered trying to wake Robb up. _Too much effort_; and Jon is learning that Robb is a cranky bastard in the morning. Gendry on the other hand…

It's the first rays of sunlight when Jon pulls Gendry stumbling and moaning out of his bed.  
"Why me?"

Jon gives Gendry a cheery grin, "Because I'm Crown Prince."

Gendry looks at him darkly and mutters, "You'll be a fucking tyrant, that's what."

"Ah, but brother, you'll love me all the same."

They both don't mention the darker undercurrent that runs through that exchange. Crown Princes and bastard brothers weren't meant to associate on friendly terms, let alone be actually _be_ friends. They'd be stupid if they didn't think their oversight in what could possibly be the largest gap in status wouldn't have consequences. But all that is forgotten for now.  
They round the corner, only to be confronted with the pointed face of Arya Underfoot, arms full of apples and whatnot from the supply carriage. Gendry and Jon stand gaping for a long moment.

She stares back at them like a rabbit caught in a hunting dog's line of sight.

"It seems we have a stowaway." Apparently she has been crouching behind the potatoes the whole time – Jon thinks it would have been uncomfortable.

"I wager your Lord father doesn't know of this?" Gendry raises his eyebrows at Arya, she shrugs. The calculating nine-year-old innocence is on her face.

"But you won't tell him anyway. You wouldn't do that, would you Gendry?"

After a moment's pause, Gendry lets out a gruff, "No." He gives her a hand out muttering to himself, "How could someone so small be such a massive pain in my arse?" Arya shoots him a grin.  
They seemingly forget Jon is still there, well, until he coughs meaningfully.  
Arya regards him, "You wouldn't tell either, would you, Jon?" Jon is shocked a little with her boldness. He hasn't really had a proper talk with her yet. But she doesn't act at all like a girl.

"Promise me, Jon."

Jon clicks his tongue while he thinks. Arya, and now Gendry, are looking at him with hope. Finally, Jon sighs, "On the Old Gods and the New, I swear it. But once we reach a far enough distance that we can't go back, then you're revealing yourself.  
He smiles, she smiles. They all smile.

"Done."

* * *

The freedom Jon felt was exhilarating. His hair is long enough at this point to whip at his face and neck as he sprints on his horse. Rob and Gendry are right beside him, laughing and whooping with glee.  
Jon grins; he would've never been allowed to do this in King's Landing.  
The rest of the entourage is leagues behind them, surrounding Jon's father and his over-burdened horse.

At some point later that night, Jon turns to his brother (_he doesn't know at what point Gendry became 'brother') _"So, have you ever thought about taking the black?"

Gendry scrunches his nose, "No, I mean, at one point I did. But Lord Stark offered me a place working in the forge. He says my work is some of the best he's ever seen, especially for my age." The pride in his voice is unmistakable. Jon wonders what it would be like to have a proud father – because that is what Uncle Ned is to Gendry – rather than a smelly, fat drunkard with an explosive temper always reminding his son of his own glory days and battle prowess, and how much better Jon needed to become.

But Jon smiles back at Gendry, "Maybe, when I am King, you can come stay in King's Landing at the Palace."

Gendry snorts, "A King's bastard in the Red Keep full of uppity nobles? Fun..."

"You're my brother, and I'll be King. I'll make you a noble."

"I'm not a Baratheon."

Robb breaks the solemn moment and laughs, "He's making excuses. It's because your pretty, tame palaces are boring in comparison to our North." The challenge is there in his eyes.

Jon pauses for a moment, before lunging at Robb, "Take this for tame, savage!"  
The entourage came by a few minutes later to see a grinning Gendry, and a rolling, hollering, yelping pile of what can only be described as adolescent testosterone.

Arya looks on wistfully, looking at Ned with pleading grey eyes.  
_She should've been born Lyanna's daughter, _Ned thinks. "No. You're not to leave my side, my little stowaway." Arya grunts with annoyance.

* * *

They are at the Gift when Jon first sights the Wall. His breath is sucked away in the freezing Northern air.  
His Uncle Ned is riding beside him at the present point, Jon turns to him when Ned says, "There never is anything like the feeling of seeing the Wall for the first time." Ned has a wry smile on his face, a nostalgic smile.

"How old were you?"

"Probably a little older that Arya is now. I should've guessed she'd sneak along." He doesn't seem all that upset, Jon notes.

As they travel ever closer to the Wall, Robert makes an announcement of sorts. Robert glares at his King's Guard, as well as Ned's men and the men of the Night's Watch that have ridden out to greet them. "I'll let you all know, keep that fucking Targaryen bag of bones away from us. I don't want to see his hide while we're here." Jon is immediately curious. There is a Targaryen still _alive?_

Jon can't help but ask a question, "Father, why do you hate them?" There's no need to specify who 'they' are.

Robert turns his glare to Jon, "Are an idiot, boy? Haven' you heard what the Mad King Aerys did to your uncle and your grandfather?"

Jon diverted his eyes, and mumbled, "But that was just the Mad King. Just one Targaryen out of all of them."

Robert coloured in the cheeks, "The Mad King's spawn stole and violated your mother as well, when she was just a bit older than you. She came back to us a mere shadow of what she was. It is not just 'one Targaryen', it's all of them, the inbred fucks."

The rest of the party looks uncomfortable.

Jon makes a non-committal noise and drops the subject. His father's temper was wearing dangerously thin and when he was like this, rational voice would not beguile his ear.

* * *

When Jon sees the Wall, everything else drowns out. A desert. A Northern desert of never-ending snow and ice. It is a short visit. But the image resonates with Jon for a long time afterwards.

* * *

So, at dinner that night, Jon places himself next to his uncle, Benjen. It is the first time he has properly met him. Jon is pleased to find that they get on well. Jon is slightly envious when he sees that Gendry gets on better with Benjen then Jon does himself. _They're not even blood related._

It's times like these that Jon wishes he'd been raised at Winterfell. He wonders what that would've been like, to be a Stark of Winterfell. Would've he been happier ?

As always, Jon gets bored of socialising. He excuses himself and goes for a walk. He doubts Robert even noticed he left.

Castle Black is a warren in the ice, so many twists and turns Jon doesn't really know where he is going anymore. Finally, he sees a light shining through door cracks at the end of a cold corridor. The door hinges creak as he opens it.

Jon sees an old man by the fire. A Maester, by the looks of things… What did Benjen say their Maester was called? Ason…Aemar…Aemon, that was it; Aemon. He goes to sit beside the old man, who is staring at the fire intently.

"Excuse me, but what are you staring at, Maester?"

Without removing his eyes from the fire, Maester Aemon answers, "Not staring, rather I am contemplating my mortality."

Jon frowns, "My swordsmaster tells me that the Braavosi have a saying, '_Valar Mourgulis'… _all men must die."

The old man's rage-filled eyes snap up, "And if you were the last of an ancient line?" Jon is taken aback by his voice – whisper-thin, yet trembling, "If the man responsible for the death of every one of your kin was staying not a building away from you? And his son was standing right in front of you? What then, Jon _Baratheon_?"  
Jon's eyes widen with realisation…_Aemon…Aemon fucking Targaryen_. But a numb feeling was setting in the bottom of his stomach, and Jon turned his eyes back to the fire casually. Jon was really hoping the old man wouldn't kill him while his back was turned.

"The Baratheon's have Targaryen blood too, Maester." Jon tries not to let his father's prejudice creep into his voice.

Aemon snorts bitterly, "What is a thimbleful of water compared to a vast ocean?"

Something inside Jon snaps.  
Jon turns his cold eyes on the Maester, "A thimbleful apparently is enough to do this." Jon sticks his hand into the fire, grabbing a fistful of coals. Maester Aemon makes a choking noise. After a few moments, Jon lets go, and holds his uninjured hand up to the Targaryen.

"Impossible," the Maester whispers, "The Baratheons have never shown signs of..." His sentence trails off.

Jon raises an eyebrow, and holds his arms in a shrug, "Obviously, now they have."

Maester Aemon has the oddest expression on his weathered face, and despite being blind, his sightless eyes are scrutinising Jon in a way he felt was familiar to how his Mother, his Uncle Ned, and even the Spider sometimes looked at him.  
Suddenly, and with surprising vigour for his age, Maester Aemon jumps up and starts rapidly walking away, "Come with me, boy. Keep up."

Jon weighs his options, before following him.  
They go through the empty hallways; everyone is still in the main hall. They reach what Jon assumes is Maester Aemon's quarters. Jon sits on a sparse-carved wooden chair while the old man reaches to inside a chest at the foot of his bed. He brings out a small, plain looking box.

The Maester now has a rueful smile on his face, "I had these for a long time. One I've had with me as a child, and the others came to me in my later years. If Aerys' children had lived, I might have given these to one of them as a wedding present."  
The old man opens the lid of the box, and Jon feels a wave of queasiness.

In a hushed voice, Jon asks, "How is that possible? Are they still alive?"

The mood sobers, "No, boy, the years have long since turned them to stone."Jon reaches out to caress them. Dead? But they felt warm to touch…

Now Jon is confused, "Why to me?"

Aemon smiles again, "An insurance of something I thought long since impossible." Jon grits his teeth at the cryptic remark.  
"Now off with you boy, put that in your chambers and go back to the feast."

Jon nods. After he has put the box away, he comes back to Master Aemon.

And the scene unfolding…_To the Old Gods and the New.  
_Jon's bulk of a father is squared off against Maester Aemon, a crowd of Night's Watch and King's Guard encircling, looking alarmed.

Robert hissed through his teeth, "Get him out of my sight. I told you I didn't want to see that- that _thing_, while I was here."

The Lord Commander Jeor Mormont looked torn between duty and friendship. Finally, Mormont places a hand on Aemon's shoulder to lead him back to his chambers. Jon and Aemon share a glance before the old man rounds the corner.

Jon's father interrogates him on what the Maester said to Jon. Its times like this, Jon thinks, that his father isn't really his father, but a King. Jon doesn't know if that is a good or bad thing.  
Nevertheless, Jon answers his father's questions ("Father, the old coot just wanted someone to tell his glory days to…"), and after a while, Robert seems satisfied that the Targaryen did not pour corruption into his heir's ears.

On their return to Winterfell, Jon glances back to his bulging saddlebag, thinking of the plain-looking box inside that held four precious dragons' eggs.

* * *

**A/N: So Jon might be a little snobbish in this. I put it down to being a Crown Prince and adolescence. At least he's not Joffery. And Maester Aemon, well he is depicted in the books and the TV series as a rather wise and calm character, the Dumbledore of Westeros. He knows that even though he is at the Wall, there are others that will continue on the Targaryen line in Pentos. (It's just my little side thought that he might have been the one to send Dany's eggs as a wedding present through Ser Jorah Mormont.) However, in this AU, they are dead, and he thinks he is the last Targaryen. This, in my opinion, makes him a very bitter and angry old man. **

**There are four dragon eggs. I know you guys can't see this, but I have a massive grin right now...**

**As always, reviews would be amazing. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

Time passed swiftly for Jon.

They pass through Winterfell once more. His aunt, Lady Catelyn, is furious at Arya for sneaking away to the Wall. She is sombre enough when her mother is chastising her. But once it ceases, Arya shoots Jon an impish smile.

He likes Arya. She's fun.

Myrcella evidently thinks so too, because Jon hasn't seen her this animated in a long time. That bloody sparrow, too, won't bloody shut up. Gendry and Robb and Theon all settle back in, and Jon despairs over the knowledge that once he leaves, he will be all alone once again. Steffon is not talking to him, still.

Jon's mother tells him it was because Steffon idolises Robert, and is jealous of Jon.

Jon snorts at that, and replies, "He can have him. I love Father dutifully, I do. But I do not respect him."

Lyanna brushes his curls back and kisses his forehead, "You are more like your father than you know." There is a wry tone in her voice that Jon doesn't quite understand.

"I am?"

Lyanna smiles, "Yes. And try to respect Robert, son, he has done many things for this family."

Jon nods. He walks away thinking he is just imagining the hardened gleam in his mother's eye.

And so, with their goodbyes, they leave Winterfell to return home.

* * *

A raven brought Lyanna a letter. After she read it, her eyes closed and she clenched her fist against her lips.

_'My dear, I am blind. But not blind in the way it counts. Thank you for the joy you have brought an old, lonely man.'_

The circle of people that know is growing. Lyanna thinks herself fool for ever believing she could just keep it to herself.

How long before Robert finds out? Lyanna was beginning to feel like an animal backed into a corner. She just hopes she doesn't do something she'll regret.

There is other news as well, troubling news. Rangers have gone missing beyond the Wall, wildings crossing the other way, south; and raiding farms.  
She needs to speak to Robert about this. Fortify the country against the Winter. Winter…A little voice in the back of her head whispers, _and whatever else accompanies it._

* * *

"Robert."

He is sitting in his chair, staring out the window of his chambers onto the bustling of the city. Lyanna thinks this is odd – Robert isn't a pensive man, usually preferring to dwell on the present than the future or past.

"Robert." She tries again.

He turns to her with dull eyes, "Oh, it's you."

She snorts, but takes a seat on a chair opposite him, "We need to talk."

His facial expression doesn't change, "What do you want?"

Now Lyanna is genuinely concerned, "What is the matter, Robert. You've been behaving like a sullen child since we've returned from the North."

There's a pause, then a sigh, "I had an encounter with Aemon _Targaryen _at the Wall."

Jon has already told her, but she asks, "It was inevitable. He has been at the Wall for longer than I have been alive, he is a fragile, blind," _Not blind in the way it counts… _"old man, you couldn't really just expect the Brothers of the Night's Watch to send him somewhere during your brief stay."

"I am King. It is their duty to obey their king." There is a pause, "But of course, Night's Watch doesn't adhere to outside parties…"

Most people believe Robert is a drunken, whoring sod of a King. For the most part it is true, and it sometimes makes Lyanna wish for the old Robert, the bright spirit of a man who thought himself invincible. The man before her is disillusioned, out of his comfort zone. She likes this side of him better than the angry, irrational one. Of course, Lyanna has built up a tolerance to both sides of the man during their marriage.

"Speaking of the Night's Watch, I believe it might be wise to start sending men to the Wall once more."

Robert waves a hand, "They can have their pick of the dungeons." He clearly thinks the matter is dismissed.

"No," she says patiently, "More men than just the basest of criminals. Perhaps men of worth, this time? Some to restore the Night's Watch to the glory it once had?""

He frowns, "You would have me send decent men with their whole lives ahead of them to that wasteland... with criminals as brothers? And for what, to keep a couple of barbarians at bay?"

Lyanna grits her teeth, "I heard that a deserter was discovered, swearing the Old Gods and the New that he had seen White Walkers."

Robert's eyebrows raise, to gauge if she is being serious. Lyanna's face is set like stone, and Robert's laugh begins booming, "Whi-White Walkers? _You are mad, woman."_

"You are a Southron, you believe such legends to only stories." She says levelly. For some reason, she still considers herself a Northerner despite being in the South for the better part of seventeen years - longer than she lived in Winterfell for...

"Because they are!" Now he is irritated, his face reddening.

_Please, please listen this once, Robert. _"Wildling numbers coming south of the Wall are increasing. Rangers are disappearing, you yourself saw testament to that when you were at the Wall. My brother's children have found direwolf pups in the Wolf's Wood.  
This Summer has been too long, Robert. Winter is Coming. We need to fortify the Kingdoms, starting at the Wall."

"No, woman! I will have no more of it. Begone!" Spittle flies from his lips. _If there is one fault common with all Southrons_, Lyanna thinks, _it is their inability to believe what they cannot comprehend or label in their limited little worlds._

Lyanna pursed her lips, and briskly walks out the door. She is heaving, trying to calm herself. Robert will not sway. She was too impatient in trying to persuade him, too desperate.

Now he will not budge. But Benjen is at the Wall, he will be the first to fall. Then Ned and Winterfell. Then Lyanna herself.

She could sense it when she reached Winterfell, sensed it in Ned's subtle change in mood, and her brother Benjen's dark words.

_Winter is Coming._ A long Winter, a dark Winter. She needs to do something, anything. But to try and explain this to these dolled up nobles would be to risk ridicule. Ultimately, the people would always follow a King over his Queen, no matter how unfit that King was to rule.

It enrages Lyanna.  
An idea forms in her mind. She tries to push it away, but it continues to niggle.

It is then she knows.

Lyanna clenches her jaw, steeling herself for what she has to do.

* * *

There is a boy, Robert's beleaguered squire, Lancel Lannister. He is but another one of the Lannister's latest attempts to gain a foot up in court, to gain an ear on the inside working of the royal family. Lyanna persuaded Robert to take him on as a squire, and she immensely enjoys feeding him all sorts of fanciful stories to carry back to Cersei's – mainly Tywin's – ears.

Lancel is to be Robert's wine boy during the next hunt. On the day of the hunt, Lyanna quietly swaps the original wine flask for her own identical one. The only difference being the replacement was laced with sedative.

The boy doesn't know anything.

She waves the hunting party off, and immediately afterwards retreated to her chambers, staring at the wall for hours in a dull trance. _So this is how sixteen years of marriage end?_

She has to do it, but despite everything she still feels an odd kind of affection for the man who had both ripped love out of her life, and given it back through her youngest children. Hate, or gratitude – she doesn't know which one she possesses more. Nevertheless, Robert Baratheon has to die.

Let nobody say she was not loyal to the Realms.

_(She tries to ignore the voice that says she was only interested in keeping her secret from Robert.)_

* * *

It goes as she suspects it will. Robert is carried back, and he lies dying in his chambers with his infected wound.

Varys gives her a wary look.  
Lyanna snaps, "Oh Seven Hells, Varys. As if you have any right to lecture me."

All the children take turns in visiting him, but Robert requests Jon more than anything else. From what Jon tells her, Robert often talks to him about doesn't seem as scathing of Robert as he once was; impending death always seems to better familial relationships.

Still, Lyanna knows Jon dreads going. He fears he will not be adequate, that they will not accept a boy king.

But they _will_ obey. Lyanna will see to that.

* * *

One such time, they were supping with the Dragonstone Baratheons, an event Jon has dreaded all week.

"Forgive me, Uncle, Aunt; my mother could not join us. She is attending to my father's affairs along with the Hand."

Stannis nods, eyes serious, "Do not apologise for what is duty. Is my brother faring any better than when I saw him yesterday?" The stiffness in Stannis' voice is unmistakable. Jon knows his father and uncle have never gotten along, but he supposes they are brothers after all. Like how Jon and Steffon are with each other. Besides, not many people do like Stannis, his Lady included, he is a quiet and humourless man, but Jon admires his sense of honour and fairness.

The pause in the conversation is covered by Cersei, "Shireen, do not slouch."

The petite girl mumbles to her plate, "Yes, Mother."

"Do not mumble. A lady does not mumble."

Jon can see Myrcella's indignant look. He catches her gaze and gives a slight shake; this kind of confrontation is not uncommon. His sister purses her lips as a response. He thinks it amusing that most believe Myrcella to be quiet and compliant.

Shireen, meanwhile, merely raises her head and says clearly, "Yes, Mother."

She is small for her age, and Jon cannot miss the thinly veiled looks of disgust Cersei has whenever she sees her daughter's greyscale. Although the girl is only nine – six years younger than himself, Jon believes without the greyscale she would've grown up to be a very beautiful girl; Cersei's features and Stannis' colouring.

Another voice joins the conversation, "As I recall, dear sister, you were most adversely taken with the idea of table manners in your youth." The Kingslayer is one of Robert's Kings Guard. Not Jon's favourite, but he is incredible to behold with a sword in hand.

Cersei stares at her brother for a long moment before replying, "One must grow up eventually. Shireen will never gain a husband if her table manners, at the least, do not improve."

Joffery sniggers across the table from, "It will take a lot more than table manners for _anyone _to take our dear Shireen."

_Smack._

Jon has to struggle to keep a straight face as the sight of Joffery's look of surprise, instead affecting a look of pleasant disbelief.

There was no emotion on Stannis' face, "I will not tolerate cruelness from you, boy. As my heir, I expect you to be better." Joffery opens his mouth, but Stannis raises a hand, "Another word, and I hit you again."

Joffery's chastised look, and the blooming rose on his cheek, brightens Jon's mood considerable, and he winks to Steffon, whose smirk couldn't be any less obvious if he tried. Jon is glad they had made up after the events at Winterfell. Their father's accident had brought them back together. Strangely enough, Joffery as well. To say that they still didn't get along with their cousin would be a severe understatement. If anything, the sentiments the Baratheon children, Myrcella included, towards the heir of Dragonstone was leaning towards hate at this present point in time.

There is an uncomfortable silence around the table, when a knock at the door sounds and opens, Lancel Lannister interrupts and bows.

"Your Highnesses, Lords, Ladies – King Robert requests Prince Jon."

Jon stands up slowly, keeping his eyes on Lancel.  
"Thank you all for your companionship at this morning's breakfast, and I look forward to seeing you soon." _Liar. _"Myrcella, Steffon, I will come get you to see Father after I am done." He kisses Myrcella on the forehead and thumps Steffon's shoulder.

There is an unspoken acceptance by everyone at the table that Robert will soon die, and that Jon will ascend as King of Westeros – one of the youngest to do so since the Young Dragon nearly a century and a half ago.

Every time Jon is summoned, they all wonder if he will come back as a King.

* * *

Lyanna closes the door quietly, checking for any possible ways for one to listen in. It was well into the night, her children had been ushered out of his chambers several hours ago, the Maester proclaiming he is becoming too weak.

Jon Arryn held up the parchment proclaiming Jon as heir; which means Robert is very close to meeting the gods.

There is a weak, rasping voice, "Come over here, Lyanna. Bring some wine with you. A dying man needs his drink." Lyanna wagers he has had quite enough already, but she does what she is told.

She sits on the stool beside his bed. Her face is impassive, "How are you, Robert?"

He squints at her, throwing his words, "How do you think I am, woman?" But his frown recedes, and he speaks again," I know this hasn't been the best, this last decade or so together."

Lyanna give a short, bitter laugh. "No, not the best."

"There was some good that came out of it though, wasn't there." Desperation is in his voice.

Lyanna nods, "I love all my children more than life itself."

"And us… I-I just wanted to say sorry. You know, for our bad times." His voice is alternates between whisper and just above whisper.

But pity for this man doesn't stem the anger that is rising, "You mean all those times when you forced me against my will? Sorry is enough for that humiliation, _Your Grace._" She notices some wine dribble out of his mouth in his haste to drink it, _pathetic._

He finishes drinking, for now, and responds "Yes…yes. I know. I was in love with you once, Lyanna, I guess I just wanted it to be like the old times. Do you remember? We were both so young. So in love." His voice is fading now, and Lyanna guesses that he doesn't have long, minutes maybe…

"I never loved you." The words slip out, and Lyanna feels such a rush of adrenaline, of power, at having finally said what she always yearned to say.

Robert, apparently, is shocked. "Never?" His voice is barely even there.

Lyanna smiles pleasantly, "Never. And do you want to know why?" Her eyes grow hard, her smile brittle, "Because you killed the only man I ever loved. You killed him on the Trident."

Dawning apprehension is on his face. Lyanna prepares herself for her final blow, "I guess my only revenge for that is that your oldest son is not yours at all. Your heir is a Targaryen."

There is a muffled cry, his veins protruding from his neck and forehead. He tries to say something, but now he is too weak, even for that. Slowly, the veins go away, and his frantic eyes grow heavy, before finally drifting close. His pulse stops thumping.

The Stag is dead.

Lyanna takes a deep breath in, "Goodbye, Robert. Thank you for your part in restoring Rhaegar's heir to the Iron Throne."

She pinches around her eyes fiercely to make them bloodshot and puffy, and to make the tears come as she wails hysterically, "Guards! Guards! Somebody, _help me_! My beloved Robert is dead!"

* * *

**A/N: **

**I was waiting for inspiration to come to me for that chapter for ages…**

**So, on the story:**

**Yes, Stannis usurped Tyrion's line, but seeing as Tyrion isn't in this story just yet, I felt some Joffery-bashing was in order.**

**In some respects, I think Cersei and Lyanna are incredibly alike, from how they were both described when they were young, though the Stark in me likes to think Lyanna's smarter. Lyanna formed something like the same relationship with Robert as Cersei had in the canon (on a lesser scale) especially after Robert had humiliated her by raping her repeatedly throughout the latter years of their marriage. **

**As always, reviews would be amazing. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own GRRM's work.**

* * *

**Aftermath:**

Robert's death hits King's Landing with a muted impact. It didn't seem real, _The Usurper is dead.  
_But the nobles know who has really been ruling Westeros.

The Wolf Queen had been orchestrating her shadow court for years, so now the shadows seemed legitimate and vice versa. The royal couple – one for the image, and another for the ruling.

Amidst the mourning and like, Jon ascends the throne at the age of fifteen.

The ceremony is large, but even that is an understatement. Jon has to keep his face impassive to hide the sheer terror he feels climbing the stairs at Baelor's Sept, uttering his oath in the ringing silence of the Sept – hundreds of nobles keeping their eye trained on the green youth.

King Jon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon breaks his impassive faces as he climbs to the balcony, with the bustling crowd of King's Landing below.  
Jon raises a strong hand, almost a salute to his people below. The deafening roar in reply brings a grin to his face, and he sinks himself in the raw, exhilarating feeling of _power._

His advisors stand behind him, those of the Small Council, Statues and Shadows that are the stilts of the Iron Throne. They let him have his revelry now, but they all know how fickle the public can be.

Varys smirks quietly, although he's slightly miffed that through no plotting of his own a Targaryen is again seated on the Iron Throne.

The celebrations are vast, and despite the Crown's debt they throw tourneys and such. The crowds revel in the blood sports and finery and they chant Jon's name from the stands as if it were a prayer.

They say Jon has all the popularity his father had when he was young. Lyanna hears this, and politely excuses herself before collapsing with laughter, because that statement can go two ways.

The Starks come down from Winterfell to celebrate, and they gift Jon with a rich wolf's fur cloak. Gendry has accompanied them. Jon is overjoyed, it is the first time he has seen his cousins and half-brother in years.

_It is odd how things happen_, Jon bemuses later at the dining table in his private chambers. All his family are sitting around, and he can see all the little ties that bind everyone together.

There is a hint of awkwardness between Arya and Gendry, so slight it is barely even there. But Jon picks up on it, and smirks. Arya was finally growing into a woman, and in the awkward stages of pubescent, and the handsome Gendry Waters would have made quite an impact on her.

He wonders if Gendry returns the sentiment. Jon frowns, _no, not quite yet_. Arya is still too young. But it is plain to the eye, as Gendry laughs at one of Arya's jokes, as he is drawn to the energy that exudes from Arya, that it is only a matter of time.

_I wonder how Gendry would like to become a Ser? Or better yet, a Lord?_

* * *

The ladies come in flocks now. Not that they hadn't before, but being King seemed to intensify their father's desperations to tie themselves to the throne.

Robb claps his hands, "So," he begins, drawing the word out, "What delightful ladies do we have lined up for our stunning King?"

Jon sends him a withering look, "I have to attend to some duties, I'll see you all at dinner" As he walks past Robb, he clouts him on the head for good measure.

Jon doesn't really have duties, but he does need to clear his head. It feels like he hasn't had a moment to _breathe, _and all the time he once spent pouring over tomes feels like another lifetime. With nostalgia, Jon reflects upon his brotherly relationship with Robb and Gendry. Jon was King now, the power balance between the three had shifted again and things would never be as they once were.

"Mother! Where are you going?" Jon jogs slightly to catch up with the brisk stride of his mother. They were both still wearing the black of mourning.

"The Godswood."

Oh. Lyanna still kept to the old gods. She had raised Jon and his siblings to do the same, yet Jon found himself conflicted. Besides the North, and his mother - and that little oddball clutch of red witches with their God of Light (Jon has heard a funny rumour recently that a red witch tried to get her claws into Stannis. Cersei sent her in the other direction, never to be heard from again) – the Kingdoms worshipped the Seven.

"Come with me, son."

He signals the guards to drop out of ear-range. This has been the first time in the days following his coronation that he would have a private conversation with his mother. That is the primary use of the visit to the godswood.

They walk, and Jon can't help but notice the lines that are beginning to crease his mother's eyes.

"How has your first week as King been?"

Jon pauses in his stride, for a moment, "You did not ask me here to gauge how I liked my first week crowned. You have a better idea than most, being Queen Regent."

"You are my son, am I not allowed to ask?" Amusement coloured her tone.

Finally, they reached the weirwood tree. Jon approached it, his fingers tracing the bleeding tears of the carved face.

"You have to be careful, Jon." Her voice comes suddenly, urgently. Jon is alarmed, but she continues, "Measure every word that comes out of your mouth, examine every consequence. I can only protect you to a certain extent. There are better players to this game than I, you need to learn this game fast, or else you might sink."

"Game?"

"Yes, it is a game of thrones. Never underestimate anyone, never think you are more adept, and never, ever trust anyone. Do this, and you might just spare yourself from becoming a pawn. But be prepared, in becoming a monarch be prepared to do things that you might not want to in betterment of the Kingdoms., but more importantly - _so that you survive._"

Jon doesn't know why she is so insistent on telling him this now, she seems troubled. His mother has always seemed unflappable until this point.

"What is wrong, Mother?"

Lyanna takes a deep breath, she pushed back his hair and kisses his forehead like she used to when he was younger, "Nothing, sweet."

She changes the subject, "Have you thought of a bride yet? There are many beautiful and suitable brides here at the moment seeking you."

"Those are two traits that don't always go together." Jon grimaces. He has had women before, Robert had seen to that, so there are no insecurities there – but Jon blanches at the idea of binding himself to someone permanently.

"One of the women at court the other day asked as to whether or not your cousins Sansa, Arya and Shireen would be trying to woo you."

Jon's mouth turns down in distaste, "Mother, we are not the Targaryens. It is rather barbaric."

His mother seems distracted, "Yes, yes. It means that leaves three or four girls from the Great Houses from you to choose from, unless one of the girls from the Lesser Houses catches your eye."

"Mother, may we speak of this later? I will think on it, but I can barely recognise all the faces, let alone their names and possible advantages marriage to them will bring."

Lyanna laughs, "Of course." And with that, they begin their walk back to the Red Keep.

* * *

Lyanna moves the chess piece on the board.

Her copper haired opponent cocked their head, "You play very well, Your Highness"

"Thank you. You did not say you were an adept student of strategy games yourself, I might have been more cautious in my moves."

Margaery Tyrell smiled demurely, bobbing her head. Lyanna quite enjoyed the girl, she had a sharp mind that was unusual and rather precocious for one her age. But the Queen of Thornes has brought Margaery to King's Landing for a reason, rather transparent as it was. The more Lyanna thought about it, however, the more she liked the idea of it.

"You know, when I was quite a bit younger, and fairer, of course, I was once called the Blue Rose of Winterfell."

Margaery's face stayed impassive but for a moment, no doubt wondering where Lyanna was going with this, before smiling, "Yes, I heard many tales, both then and now, of your enduring beauty."

Lyanna gave her a half-smile. The girl has already grasped the concept of women's politics. She would be a fine choice. "The game is finished, dear, I think it best you be off to your chambers."

Margaery rose, "Of course, your Grace."

As she was leaving, Lyanna called, "Oh, and Margaery?" The girl turned back around.  
"I believe we need another Rose for the royal garden."

This time, surprise showed on Margaery's face. The sixteen year old was not quite as proficient as she might think just yet. But the surprise melted to another demure smile.

"I'm glad you think so, Your Grace."

After she left, Lyanna picked up the Queen piece on the chess board. She revolved it in her fingers, thinking. It really was the most powerful piece on the board, but the question is, in this next game: would it be the King or the Queen that held the most power?

* * *

Sweat dripped down Jon's back, he pants as the humidity rolls though the air. The sword dangles limply at his side. Energy has slowly sapped from his limbs throughout the day in this heat, and Jon wishes he could just _sleep._

"Sloppy, sloppy work my prince." Provocative words lace through dusty courtyard.

Jon shoots him a glare, "Prince?"

"A crown and some holy words do not make you a King, boy. Experience and cunning does. And frankly, a King would be better with a sword." The tone of the voice is mocking.

Jon shakes his head and laughs. He knows by now not to be offended, and Jon finds it refreshing that at least there is one man who is not dusting his words with manipulation and concealed meanings when speaking to Jon.

A challenge is there in Syrio's eyes, and Jon takes it.

They dance a deadly dance, quiet and fluid grace in the steps. Never faulting, every hit met match for match. As always, the training amasses spectators, curious nobles who have the time to loiter and see how their Prince – now their King – fares at weapons under the tutelage of the Braavosi foreigner; as well as servants who pretend they are merely tying a shoelace or dusting the floors, eyes which turn wistfully on luxuries they will never hope to possess.

Jon knows he is good, perhaps better than good. He has been training since he was eleven and he could easily take on most men his age, most likely most men older than him as well.

But not Syrio.

Jon's been getting better over the years, their matches are spanning longer. But inevitably, Jon winds up with a sword snaking up to his throat.

"Well, I was better that time," Jon says with an amused tone.

"Death cannot be reversed."

Jon's lips set thinly, he felt like mentioning what the red priests claim to do, but he refrained. Jon has a sly thought. Without a moment's notice, his hand lashes out and takes the sword, his leg sweeps to knock Syrio over.

Syrio, while unbalanced, lands on his hands and bounces lightly to his feet.

Syrio raises a questioning eyebrow, to which Jon snorts with frustration, "Seven Hells! I swear you're not even human. The gods seem determined to keep your limbs in contact with the ground!"

A bell tolls in the distance. Both cock their head to the sound.

"The training session is over, Myrcella's will soon begin." Jon makes conversation to distract his mind for the Small Council Meeting in an hour, and he needs to bathe so as to not smell like an adolescent dung heap in front of Westeros' most powerful men…and his Mother.

"Oh? How is my sister faring with the sword?"

A light sparks in Syrio's eyes, "Your sister could be talented, if she wasn't so adverse to the idea of actually hitting anything with that sword of hers."

Jon chuckles, "So nothing has changed then, my sister prefers to deal with foes with that barbed tongue of hers." Jon pauses, "My cousin, Arya, however, seems most eager to relocate to King's Landing to train with you."

Lyanna had almost given up with the idea of Myrcella ever becoming proficient with a sword, although she still has hopes for Arya, who Jon hears is the very image of his mother in looks and personality at that age.

"I will think of it, but I do not relish the idea of babysitting." Syrio smirks ever-so-slightly,"Good day, My King."

He bows and walks away.

* * *

**A/N: Yeah, sorry guys, this is a bit of a character-building filler chapter.**

**I wasn't really sure with the mourning in black…is that a Westerosi custom?**

**Concerning the questions of Joffery's mental stability. I think it's a rather interesting debate, the whole nature versus nurture idea.**

**While I certainly think that the limitless privileges Joffery had in canon as a child contributed to the personality he had, I get the impression it goes further than that.**

**GRRM writes many incestuous relationships, and look at the products of them. I.e. The Targs (I'm aware this is a bad example, but roll with it.). I think GRRM displays the mental defects of inbreeding more than the physical, but each inbred character seems to be balancing on a 'coin' of stability and insanity. Actually scratch that, they say "greatness or madness" with the Targaryens, which doesn't really certify any of them sane. Anyway, Myrcella and Tommen seem to be stable –two out three –but I've always gotten the feeling that Joffery's love of violence, cruelty and general craziness comes from something deeper than just the way he was raised. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: May shock you, but I don't own any of GRRM's works. **

* * *

"Come to bed, love." Cat's sleepy voice murmurs from the bed.

It's tempting. Hunched over in the dim candlelight for the past hour, with the sun long being set, Ned's eyes grow weary.  
He turns in his chair to the bed where Cat is, undoubtedly warm and comfortable; then back to the piles of assorted letters and reports on his desk.

Ned cracks his neck and groans, rising from the chair, "Coming, Cat."  
He is almost at the bed when a furious knocking interrupts. Ned considers just telling whoever it is to go away, but to come to his chambers at this time must be important.

It is.

* * *

Ned Stark stares uncomprehendingly into the piece of paper, as if through thorough scrutiny it would reveal the answers to all his problems. But it is not so.

"How can this be true?" Ned frowns at Maester Luwin.

His Maester's wavering voice answers back, "I know not, although Maester Aemon is not said to lie."

The report still stays the same, elegant handwriting for such catastrophic tidings.

_Lord Commander Jeor Mormont of the Night's Watch has been slain in his chambers by a creature of Winter, and the wildings attack the Wall with increased fervour. The Brothers are in chaos, and the Brother Bowen Marsh has taken on acting Lord Commander. With so little men, The Night's Watch implores the Crown and all Lords to send immediate reinforcements._

_Yours in dire need, Maester Aemon of the Wall._

Ned wants to believe that the old Maester Aemon has finally gone mad, that he is having delusions. It would be easy just to past it off as that.  
But it is not that. Winter was coming, aye, as Winter is always coming. But Ned remembers the deserter. The words he spoke.

Ned has been passing it over for too long. Now it wouldn't be just the Winter coming this time.

He sits down at his table, resting his head in his hands.

_Gods help us all._

The Night's Watch haven't sent the tidings to anyone else, and Ned can see why. None but the Northerners would have even the slightest chance of believing the idea of legend turned to reality, and none but the Starks have enough influence with the Crown to bring the reinforcements.

Ned asks Cat to bring Robb. Maester Luwin looks to frail at the moment to attempt a journey to fetch Robb. They come back about ten minutes later.

"Father, we don't have any evidence. How can you be sure?" Robb's mind was in overdrive about the things his father had just told him. He knows he has to be reasonable, has to try and negotiate with this madness. More than anything, it frustrates Robb that deep down he knows this letter isn't a lie.

"Maester Aemon is a reliable man. The story aligns with other reports we've been having. Now is the time to accept the possibility of the impossible. Robb, what do we do next?" Ned raises his eyebrows at Robb.

Robb is sure his father has already decided what to do, but is testing him – the latest in a series of never-ending tests to see if Ned can actually trust Robb with the responsibility of ruling the North.

"We send men to aid the Night's Watch, and we notify the Crown," Ned nods, but the expectation in his eyes tells Robb there has to be more.

Then the realisation hits, "They won't believe us."

His father's lips tweak. "Exactly."

Robb frowns, "But…but Jon is King. He'll believe that we're not lying, he'll send his men."

"A King's power comes from the loyalty and belief of the men that follow him. If his people believe him a fool, then it will undermine his authority. Jon is too clever; Lyanna and the Small Council are too clever to do that."

"So…we need to give them proof?"

Cat speaks up, "Should I bring Rodrick, Vayon and Jory as well? They might want to hear this." Her eyes are sunken. She looks weary to the bone.

Ned shakes his head, "It's too late in the night, love." He claps Robb on the shoulder, "You've done well considering how late it is."

"Maester Luwin, write back to the Wall. We need proof of these wights to give the Crown, that we can't send any men until we have that. Even Winterfell will laugh at us if we send men without proof. Aemon will understand." Ned scratches his beard absently, "I will write to Jon Arryn. I won't tell him the details, but I'll let him know that we may have to send large numbers of men to the Wall."

"And Lyanna." Catelyn reminds him. Catelyn and Lyanna haven't always necessarily gotten along, possibly more because they don't understand one another.

Ned agrees, "And Lyanna. But she'll believe the truth. It will be helpful when the time comes."

* * *

Jon lies awake in his bed. He doesn't know the exact time, but the bell tolled midnight a while ago.  
Finally, he drifts to sleep. As he sleeps, he dreams.

_Their bodies lay intertwined on silk sheets. Jon feels vibrations as the woman laughs. Her silver-white hair splays across the pillows.  
__The woman looks at Jon with loving violet eyes, and without knowing the woman's name, Jon knows that he loves this woman._

_Jon touches her face, "What would I do without you?"  
__She brings her face so close that their foreheads are touching, "Probably be holed up in some godforsaken pile of snow, my love."_

The dream flashes forward.

_The beautiful woman is at Jon's side, and the pair stand with their hand linked and raised for the masses. The cheer is deafening._

_Jon leans to the woman, murmuring in her ear, "They love you."_

_She smiles back at him. There is so much in that smile, love, happiness, but most of all there is acknowledgment. Acknowledgement that together, all foes would fall at their feet – _the world_ would fall at their feet._

_And who would dare stop them? They were gods amongst men._

_And she whispers back fervently, tightening her grip on his hand, "They love us. We rule them. It is our birth right."  
__It is then Jon notices what they are wearing. Clothes adorned with red and black…_

_Red and black…_

The dream changes again.

_Jon is running, but he is not fast enough. He doesn't know what is chasing him, only that Jon is the slower out of them.  
__A heart tree beckons. Jon's chest is heaving, sweat rolling. His heart feels like it is going to explode, but he pushes on. He is almost there!_

_Jon gives a cry as the roots of the heart tree trip him._

_He is falling…f__alling...f__alling…_

_On his back, Jon can see the branches of the tree. It is on fire – the bloody face of the heart tree sneering –but it is not burnt, and the flames are rising high into the sky. Within the branches, there is a crow cawing mockingly._

_Jon hears a snarl, low and vicious. He pushes himself up and frantically turns around. Scrabbling for a stick with which he might defend himself.  
__Jon closes his eyes just as the monstrous wolf tears his throat out._

He opens his eyes. Closes them. Opens them again.

Jon can feel the bile rising in his throat. Swallowing doesn't do much, but hopefully it is enough to stop him from emptying the contents of his stomach.

He sits at the edge of his bed, mind pouring through his dream. The woman from his dream –the white hair, the violet eyes. He was dreaming about a gods-curst Targaryen?

On the other hand, Jon reasoned, she could just be a scion of House Velaryon. But no Velaryon Jon had ever seen. Moreover, red and black were not the colours of House Velaryon.

"_It is our birth right…"_

Then there was that horrifying wolf, fur blending into the icy background and red eyes boring into Jon's soul. It's too big to be an actual wolf; its size reminds Jon of Robb explaining how big Grey Wind was going to grow.

"_It is our birth right…"_

Night terrors were not uncommon for him, although he tries to hide it from the nobles and such, he has no doubt that the servants whisper about it. And if the servants know…well then everyone else is assured to.

"It is our birth right?" Jon forms it as a soundless question on his tongue.

The sun pierces through his curtains. Jon sighs and shakes his head as if will clear all images of dragon-clad women and direwolves and burning heart trees.

Time to start another day.

The gardens are possibly one of the most beautiful places in the Red Keep. Jon often remembers all the times his mother took him to her favourite spot

Jon felt a rush of adrenaline and lust as Arianne of Dorne approached…A beautiful woman for a beautiful garden, dark hair curling down her back and sultry brown eyes.

She wore loose-fitting silk robes, Jon could only wish that she wore something more tight-fitting like many of the ambitious women here in King's Landing. She was five years older than Jon, but in his eyes, this just made her more desirable.  
Her full lips were about to open to speak, but a voice interrupted from the side.

"Your Grace, if you would give me the honour of being introduced to my fair sister, Roslin of House Frey."

Jon turns to see a bulky man with a weak chin that is still visible even through his extra chins. There is a girl behind him, a dainty, pale skinned girl.  
She is pretty, which surprises Jon – unfortunately Lord Frey has seen fit to send Jon many of his daughters and granddaughters.

A polite coughing sound comes from where Arianne stands, Jon turns back to Arianne. But his face falls – it is not Arianne. Arriane has moved on to another social circle.  
The Red Viper smiles back at him. It's not a friendly smile, his dark eyes impossible to read.

"Forgive me, Ser Frey, I must have a talk with His Grace for a moment."

Jon is glad for an excuse away from the ambitious family of the Twins, he nods and gives a polite smile to the Frey whose name escapes Jon, "I apologise, this may be urgent. It has been a pleasure to meet you." Jon turns to the Frey girl, kissing her hand, "And you, fair lady." Her cheeks turn pink.

Jamie Lannister and Barristan Selmy follow Jon. Jon has grown used to their presence, if not comfortable with it.

He hears Jaime mention to Barristan, "What a delightful little trap our King seems to get himself into between young girls and their socially aspiring relatives."

Jon cannot help but agree.

Which brings him back to the matter at hand… Jon motions to Oberyn Martell, "How does a walk through the gardens sound?"  
It wasn't really a question, but the Red Viper nods as if it were one.

As soon as his Kings Guard are out of earshot, Martell says casually, "I have a favour to ask on behalf of my brother, Prince Doran."

This could be interesting, "Oh?"

"Concerning my niece, Arriane." But the next words out of Oberyn's mouth were not what Jon was expecting, "He implores you not to choose her as a wife."

They keep strolling as if nothing has happened, but Jon is deeply confused. "And why is that? Most Houses would jump at the chance of aligning theirs with the Royal House. It is not conceited to say so, it is merely the truth."

Nevertheless, the Viper's eyes narrow slightly, "I will be honest with you, Your Grace. Arriane is skilled when it comes to leading. More so that her younger brother, Quentyn. The Prince wishes her to succeed him as the Ruling Princess of Dorne." Oberyn pauses, "That would be difficult if she were here playing brood mare to Your Grace."

Anger shoots through Jon at his insolent tone, but Jon keeps a calm face. Oberyn Martell was known for having a sharp tongue. Jon says lightly, "That would be difficult indeed. Although, if I wanted to, I could take her as my wife – "

"And risk making an enemy of Dorne?" The Viper's furious voice cuts through.

Jon meets his eyes levelly, "As I was saying before you interrupted, I could take her as a wife. If you objected, it would be Dorne against all other Houses," The Viper's eyes are taking a poisonous look, but Jon continues, "But I'm not going to do that."

The Viper abruptly halts, but Jon keeps walking. Eventually he feels the Viper come back into stride with him.

"Then what will you do, Your Grace." The tone is suspicious.

Jon stops to admire the flowers. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Jaime Lannister and Selmy stop as well, still out of earshot yet Jon never leaving their sight.

"Arriane is a beautiful woman, and as you say, no doubt clever. I believe she'll make a wonderful ruler of Dorne. But House Martell is one I would like to consider becoming friendlier with, and if not a union between myself and Arriane, I can only think of one other arrangement."

After a pregnant pause, there comes, "Yes?"

"Your nephew, Trystan, I believe is of age with my sister Myrcella. Yes?"

Oberyn's black eyes take on a new light, "I will have to correspond with my brother first, of course, but I believe that will be gladly arranged in recompense."

Jon grins.

* * *

After the meeting, there is the dreaded instance of Jon having to tell his family. Jon is pleased for another reason, but it doesn't mean his family will be.

Surely his mother will understand. The Martells had to be brought back into the fold somehow, and this was a golden opportunity. Even though Jon loathes letting his sister go, Jon has just eliminated the possibility that Myrcella would marry that sadistic little toe-wart, Joffery Baratheon of Dragonstone, who recently is beginning to look at Myrcella in a way that makes Jon want cage him in the black cells for all eternity.

* * *

Tyrion lounges in his chair, halfway glaring at his father that stands opposite the room.

"You have no idea the amount of influence I had to use to allow you a place at court."

Tyrion can barely keep himself from cringing at his father's biting words, instead affecting a bored look.

"You, unfortunately, will represent the Lannister family at King's Landing, so try not to behave like a fool. Do not disappoint me, or you will find yourself back in charge of all cisterns and drains Casterly Rock can provide. Is that understood?"

Tyrion looks up at his father, inwardly cursing that he is too short to even meet his father in the eye. If his father would ever deign to actually look at him.

But King's Landing…far away from his father's overpowering, ever present disgust.

"Yes."

* * *

The day has ended, and Jon retires to his chambers. As he enters, he is shocked by a lovely sight stretched out on his bed.

Jon closes the door and laughs, "You're certainly a sight for sore eyes."

He cannot be bothered with wondering why the woman is here. There's definitely a reason, but he is tired and frustrated and she is so, so tempting. Rather than asking questions, Jon starts undressing and goes to join the naked woman on his bed.

* * *

**A/N: I'm just reminding you all; I did rework the timeline of the canon to write this story. **

**Also, guys, many of you have brought to my attention several slip ups of the last chapter. Regarding cousin marriages, I am aware of it, but for some reason my head was somewhere else when I was writing last chapter. Oops. Just look past it for now.  
But regarding what I said on Joffery's mental stability, I'll still stick by that. It might have been just my own reading of Joffery's character, and I don't have any true stance on the whole nature versus nurture debate. I don't profess to be any expert, but hypothetically, if the Lannisters had a recessive insanity disorder somewhere along the line then Cersei's children would have an increased risk of receiving that trait. That's my reasoning, even though I know it doesn't say it anywhere in the books. **


End file.
